


Amethyst and Bone

by trashgoblinwizardparty



Series: Veil of the Forgotten [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Creepy, Dubcon Cuddling, Horror, Illustrated, M/M, Necromancy, No Smut, Sharing a Bed, the m-rating is for horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty/pseuds/trashgoblinwizardparty
Summary: Harry Potter's Witch-Talent was that he could see death.And Tom Riddle wore death like a cloak.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deathofthenorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofthenorm/gifts).



> I hope you like this!
> 
> many thanks to [RedHorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse) for the beta ♥

Twisted, skeletal limbs of autumn-bare trees clawed at the night sky. The wind howled through the branches like a ravening beast, and the first fat, cold raindrops fell from the roiling clouds overhead.

Harry Potter ran, the leather soles of his worn-out, too-large boots slipping on the damp leaves blanketing the forest floor. Brambles caught at his hair and stung his skin, tugging at his linen shirt and woolen trousers. Aunt Petunia would punish him for destroying his clothes, but the immediate threat of Dudley and his gang outweighed the distant threat of his aunt’s anger.

That is, if he could even return to his aunt and uncle’s. He rather suspected there would be no going back after what happened earlier this afternoon.

Harry forced that thought from his mind. He’d deal with it later, once his cousin wasn’t hell-bent on murdering him.

He skidded down the side of a narrow ravine, small stones and dirt raining down on his already messy hair. The pile of leaves at the bottom crunched beneath his feet as he landed.

He paused to listen for a moment, ears straining to catch any sounds. The shouting of his pursuers echoed through the woods.

Chants of “Kill the witch! Kill the witch!” had become more garbled and distorted, swallowed by trees and fallen leaves. The rain began in earnest, pelting the ground and soaking Harry in minutes.

Harry moved as silently as he was able, the sound of the rain obscuring the crunch of leaves beneath his feet. Luckily, he was familiar with this bit of the forest. Aunt Petunia sent him out here every morning during the summer to gather blackberries. The thought of the Dursley Bakery’s famous blackberry tarts made Harry’s stomach grumble, reminding him he’d not eaten since his meager breakfast.

The flickering light of a torch passed by above and to the right of him, beyond a veil of brambles. Harry froze, heart in his throat, hoping they wouldn’t look down.

From this angle, he could see the rat-like profile of Piers Polkiss cast in hellish orange light. What Harry thought was a torch was actually a flame cupped in the boy’s palm. Luckily for Harry, Dudley only had the one Witch-Talented friend. Even luckier that Polkiss’ Talent was fire-starting, and not fore-sight or mind-reading, or Harry would have been found immediately. 

Even so, Harry kept as still as possible, and eventually the light moved on. He let out a soft breath and switched directions, heading up the ravine and further into the woods.

Harry’s own Witch-Talent was what had landed him in hot water with Dudley and his gang to begin with.

He’d seen Malcolm Little’s death hovering over him all morning. 

A warning to Dudley and his friends to stay well away from tall buildings backfired spectacularly when, out of sheer spite, they loitered too near the old armory. A sudden gust of wind must’ve caught one of the slate shingles just right, sending it clattering down. It landed square on Malcolm’s thick head with a sickening, wet crack. 

Their panicked shouts carried across the village, and a crowd gathered around Malcolm’s still body. Harry didn’t need to be close to know the boy was dead. 

From across the knot of onlookers, Dudley’s eyes met Harry’s. For the first time in many, many years, Harry was afraid of his cousin. 

So he ran. 

He’d dodged into the alleyway between the bakery and the butcher shop, making a break for the woods. Harry wasn’t the cause of Malcolm’s death, but he knew Dudley wouldn’t see it that way. 

He should’ve just kept his mouth shut and pretended to be shocked like everyone else. If he could save people, he would, but every time he tried, it only seemed to speed up their inevitable doom. He could only watch, helpless, as the events unfolded before his eyes. 

Truthfully, it was an awful Talent. It was as if there were only one possible outcome, and by the time he saw their death looming, it was too late. It hovered over a person: a dark shadow, fluttery like a burial shroud, growing larger as their time neared. If Harry got close enough he could even smell it on them, the musty-damp of an open grave. 

Harry shook his head, and fruitlessly wiped the rainwater from his face, squinting into the darkness. Gloomy thoughts for a gloomy night. 

The ravine grew shallower as he went. The surrounding underbrush which had survived the first frost became thicker the closer he got to the Deep Woods. A shiver ran up the length of Harry’s spine as he neared the ancient heart of the forest.

Harry avoided the place. Most sensible people did. There was something very wrong with that part of the forest. People who went in never came out again, or if they did, they were...changed. Even animals seemed to stay well clear of it.

He climbed out of the ravine right at the edge of the invisible boundary that separated the Deep from the normal woods.

The rain appeared to be letting up at last, tapering off into a miserable drizzle. The wind picked up again, bringing with it the scent of winter’s oncoming chill. Harry took refuge in the lee of a large, moss-covered boulder, and tried to plan his next move. He’d been running on pure instinct since the moment Malcolm’s body hit the ground and hadn’t had a chance to really think about what he’d do next. 

Going back to his aunt and uncle’s seemed to be out of the question. Going back to the village at all might be impossible. 

He’d spent his entire life in Godric’s Hollow, ever since his mother and father died and he was dumped on the Dursleys’ doorstep as a baby. And while he wasn’t exactly treated well, he’d at least had a roof over his head.

A muffled shout somewhere in the distance behind him startled Harry out of his thoughts. 

Cautiously, he peered around the boulder. 

What he saw made his blood run cold. 

Firelight danced between the branches, some near and some further away. More torches than there were people in Dudley’s gang. A shudder ran through Harry’s body that had nothing to do with the rain and chill. He wasn’t well-regarded enough in the village to warrant a search out of friendly concern. 

No, this definitely had the look of an angry mob. 

It seemed at least half the village was combing the forest for him, and he was trapped between them and the Deep Woods.

Harry weighed his options. He stared into the eerie wrongness of the Deep Woods a few yards ahead of him. Mist writhed just beyond the first twisted trees, seemingly untouched by the wind and rain. 

The sharp crack of a twig too close for comfort made the decision for him. 

He broke cover and sprinted towards the Deep. The angry shouting that followed made it clear he made the right call. He darted into the trees, worming through closely-interlaced boughs like an eel. 

Mist rose up around him, clinging to his skin, clammy and unpleasant. He ran, stumbling over roots and unseen things, trying to put as much distance between him and the villagers as he could. 

He couldn’t have gone more than a few yards, but Harry felt as if he’d run to the moon and back. He stopped and hid behind the gnarled bole of an old tree, listening. It was silent. Not even a breath of wind stirred the mist. No sound could be heard except for Harry’s own harsh panting. 

They weren’t pursuing him into the Deep, but it was dreadfully obvious that Harry couldn’t go back.

***

The thick loam beneath his feet muffled his steps as he wandered, aimless.

Time moved oddly in the Deep Woods, all stretched-out and twisted. Harry felt as if he’d been walking for hours, or even days, and yet it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes since he’d evaded the villagers. 

He rubbed at his gooseflesh-prickled arms. It wasn’t exactly cold, but it wasn’t warm, either. Mist slithered over the ground, no higher than Harry’s knees, giving the impression the forest had sprung up out of the clouds. Even the earth he trod upon seemed strangely springy and soft. 

The ground was dotted here and there with globular, blue-green things, glowing with a sickly light. When harry nervously prodded one with his boot, it turned out to be some kind of mushroom. It wasn’t any species he recognized, and he fervently hoped it wasn’t one of those that could kill on contact. 

A spell of silence lay thick over the forest, and the low-lying fog drifted independent of any sort of breeze. The bluish light from the fungi cast everything in an unearthly glow and gave it an air of dreamy timelessness. Harry felt like the only person left in the world. 

It was unsettling to say the least.

***

It wasn’t as dark as it ought to be, Harry reckoned. Even though it was nighttime, he could still see quite well. Though it had been raining when he escaped the villagers, he belatedly realized he hadn’t felt a single drop of water from the moment he entered the Deep Woods. He glanced upwards; a half moon peeked between leafless branches.

Half moon. That brought Harry up short. It had been a waning crescent last night, hadn’t it? 

How long had he been in here? He frowned at the moon, trying to remember what phase it was supposed to be. 

Flickering movement out of the corner of his eye pulled his attention back to earth. Something fluttery and dark, bat-like, yet insubstantial danced at the edges of his vision. Whatever it was vanished before he could get a good look at it. 

Unnerved, he continued on.

***

Harry couldn’t shake the feeling he was going ‘round in circles.

That tree. He was positive he’d passed that tree already, the odd whorling pattern of the bark was too familiar. 

Moss grew thick on every surface; it was impossible to tell which way was north. He stopped and considered the tree in front of him. Maybe if he climbed it, he could see the edges of the Deep Woods and have a better idea of which direction to take. 

He’d spent his entire life in Godric’s Hollow, but going back was out of the question. Little Hangleton, the next village over, couldn’t be _too_ far away, Harry reckoned. 

The fluttery somethings still flitted in and out of his awareness, even more agitated than before. They seemed harmless, however, so Harry ignored them. 

A branch hung over his head, just barely out of reach. He dug his fingers into the soft moss blanketing the tree, and searched for a foothold on the gnarled roots, knocking over one of the glowing mushrooms in the process. It left a smear of blue-green phosphorescence on his boot. 

He snagged the branch, and scrambled to pull himself up, his worn-out boots not finding purchase in the slippery moss. He’d just managed to haul himself up to straddle embarrassingly over the branch, when he heard a sickening wet snap. _Like a slate tile cracking someone’s head open,_ he thought, wildly, as he plummeted toward the ground. 

But unlike Malcolm Little, he didn’t die. The branch had only been about six feet up, so he just landed hard on his back with a bitten-off curse and the wind knocked out of him. 

Something thick and coppery-smelling dripped down Harry’s face, for a panicked moment, he thought he _had_ cracked his head open. 

But it was only tree sap from the broken branch. He could see it oozing from the offending limb just beside him. 

He tried to sit up, but the world spun dizzyingly around him. 

So he slumped back, into the vee of the tree’s roots, cushioned by soft, sweet-smelling moss. The rough bark scratched his shoulders, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He traced a finger along the strange whorls on the tree roots, smearing the bloody sap as he did. 

The fog crept up over him again. It felt so good to lie there in a nest of soft moss and rich soil, blanketed by mist, lulled by the hypnotic blue-green glow of the mushrooms. 

_He should just stay lying down here, no one would miss him._

Yes, that’s what he’d do. 

_Close his eyes._

His eyelids drooped, too heavy to stay open. 

_Sleep._

He was tired, exhausted. Completely drained.

_Nothing out there could compare to the eternal peace this place could bring him._

He would just rest a bit, and then go on. 

Something warm and comforting wrapped around him, like a hug from an old friend. A damp, earthy scent enveloped him, and he sighed, drowsy and content. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

The shock of hearing another voice in the quiet pulled Harry from his dreamy lassitude. 

His eyes snapped open and he looked up. 

Standing above him was a tall, pale man with hair that curled darkly around his forehead. He wore a long black cloak over some very old-style clothing, also black. Long fingers wrapped around a bone-white staff with a large, dark purple stone embedded at the top of it. 

The man held out a hand, and Harry hesitated for a moment. 

“I don’t bite,” he said. “Though I can’t say the same for that thing you’re leaning against.” 

The voice was smooth as silk, a pleasant, velvety tenor. 

Harry couldn’t find his own voice, weighed down by lethargy. 

Literally weighed down…

It was then that Harry really looked at where he was. The tree had wrapped tendril-like roots around his legs and was slowly pulling him into the loamy earth. 

“Listen, I know it might look like a tree, but it isn’t.”

Harry only stared dumbly. 

The man raised a dark eyebrow. “It doesn’t really matter to me either way,” he added, shrugging. 

Harry reached out and grasped the cloaked man’s hand, and he was pulled free as if he weighed nothing. 

The man said something that made the inside of Harry’s head itch, the words sibilant and foreign, and the stone on the staff lit up so brightly with purple light that he had to cover his eyes for a moment. 

The crackle of power fizzled across Harry’s every nerve. This must be what it’s like to be struck by lighting, he thought. 

The tree made a horrid screech and its roots retreated back into the soil, recoiling from the light. 

“So, can you speak?” the man asked. 

“Y-yes,” Harry croaked, staring wide-eyed at the apparently carnivorous not-exactly-a-tree. 

“Oh, good. I’d hate to think my new apprentice would be mute. I rather like the sound of my own voice, but talking to oneself does get a bit dull after a while.” 

The man turned smartly on his heel and strode off. “Do keep up,” he threw back, carelessly, over his shoulder. 

“Hang on, new apprentice?” Harry blurted. 

The cloaked man stopped. He was even taller than Harry had initially thought. “Why yes. You accepted my help and now you owe me your life.” 

“I —wait a minute, I didn’t agree to this!”

“You tacitly agreed when you took my hand.” 

“What?” 

The man turned to look at him, then. In the dim half-light of the Deep Woods, his eyes were dark, but there was an eerie, reddish glint deep within. Harry’s skin crawled under the scrutiny. 

“I can put you back, if you’d rather?” he said softly, dangerously. 

Harry cast a look back at the not-tree. It wriggled. He shuddered. “No, that’s quite alright.” 

“I knew you’d see things my way, Harry Potter.” 

Harry paused. “How do you know my name?” 

The man took a step closer to him and smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Your Talent is an interesting one. I think it could be very useful for what I’m trying to accomplish.” 

Harry said nothing to that. 

“Oh, where are my manners? I have many names, but you may call me Tom. Tom Riddle,” the man —Tom— said. 

“Tom?” Harry had a hard time reconciling such a common name with this strange man. Tom must’ve picked up on that thought, however, because a snarl passed over his face for the briefest moment, before settling back into smooth, dangerous calmness. 

“Yes, Harry?” 

But Harry couldn’t find the words for what he wanted to say, so he shook his head and muttered, “Nevermind.” 

Fluttery, insubstantial shadows clung to every inch of Tom’s tall form, moving sinuously around him. They seemed almost interwoven into the material of his robe. Harry had never seen anything like it before. 

Harry Potter’s Witch-Talent was that he could see death. 

And Tom Riddle wore death like a cloak.


	2. Chapter 2

They walked in silence, their footfalls muffled by the thick forest loam. The mist fled from the hem of Tom’s long cloak, and Harry followed in his wake. 

In the gloom, the phosphorescent mushrooms stood out like unblinking stars against the dark backdrop of trees. The half moon shown between the branches. It didn’t look like it had moved at all in the time they’d been walking. 

It was difficult keeping up with Tom, who was very tall and had a long stride. Tom didn’t seem inclined to slow his pace for Harry, either. He was expected to keep up. 

Harry took the opportunity to study the strange man ahead of him. Tall, pale, handsome (very handsome, Harry thought, with an uncomfortable flutter in his belly) and undoubtedly someone with a lot of power. There were people in the world who had far beyond mere Witch-Talent, but Harry had never met one before. 

Death surrounded Tom, but none of it was actually _his_ , though Harry couldn’t puzzle out exactly who it belonged to. There was…a lot of it. It clung to the man, moving with him like a shadow, woven into the fabric of his clothing. Bits of death stuck to his hair and curled in the hollow of his throat, trailing in tatters as he moved. 

The effect was unnerving; Harry had never seen anything quite like it. 

Every once in a while, Tom would stop cold, listening. The first time this happened, Harry nearly ran into him. The death surrounding Tom reached thin, ashy fingers towards him and he stumbled backwards in panic, heart pounding. 

“W-what?” Harry shouted. 

Tom held up a careless hand and Harry’s lips sealed themselves shut. 

Quick as a shadow, Tom moved behind him, close enough Harry could smell the cold, musty scent of death upon him. 

“Do you see anything?” Tom murmured in his ear, far too close for comfort. 

Harry pointedly said nothing, unable to open his mouth. 

Tom sighed. He made another motion with his hand and Harry could speak again. 

“Now, without screaming, tell me what you see.” 

Harry licked his tingling lips, unsure of what to say. All he saw was more forest: twisted trees, low-lying fog, softly glowing mushrooms. Harry told him so. 

“Hmm,” was all Tom said in response. He spun the white staff in his hand, and the stone at the end lit up, illuminating tree trunks and driving away mist in a flash of purple. 

If this was a test of some sort, Harry wasn’t sure he passed.

***

The bone-white staff Tom carried had many secrets. Among them was the fact it evidently served as a house…or something like a house, at any rate. Harry discovered this the hard way when Tom stopped them suddenly in a clearing, just as daybreak crept over the treetops, and delivered a sharp knock to the top of Harry’s head with the stone-end of the staff.

That was all the warning Harry had before experiencing the strange and unpleasant sensation of being turned inside out and squeezed into a tiny ball. He came to on hard flagstones inlaid with shiny purple runes, the light of which was sinking back into the floor even as Harry watched, dazed and nauseous. 

Before he could even gather his bearings, the runes flared up again, and Harry instinctively rolled out of the way just as Tom appeared in a flash of violet light right where Harry had been lying. 

Harry rolled over and came face to face with a gigantic snake. 

He was quite proud of himself for not screaming. It had been a very long day. 

“Ah, I see you’ve met Nagini,” Tom said, stepping over him. 

The snake —Nagini— regarded Harry for a long moment, its tongue flickering in the air in front of his face, before slithering off, apparently deciding a scrawny teenage boy wouldn’t make a good meal. Harry let out a breath and slumped to the floor in relief, trying to calm his racing heart. 

Not for the first time, Harry wondered if he’d see his own death approaching. He rather suspected he would, but he wouldn’t know until it was upon him.

***

Harry shared Tom’s bed.

The first night, Harry stood in front of the disconcertingly narrow bed up in the loft which overlooked the rest of Tom’s living space, flustered and dismayed. 

Tom was right behind him, a cold presence at his back, a long-fingered hand pressed along his spine. Close enough that Harry could smell death on him: the metallic tang of blood, the cold, musty scent of the grave, a burning smell of ash and sulfur, and underneath it all, a cloying, sickly-sweet poison. Blood, ash, hemlock, and cold earth. 

The combination should’ve made him feel ill, but it rather had the opposite effect, as Harry felt his face heat up. 

He hated himself for blushing, and hated his body even more for the gooseflesh that erupted at Tom’s touch. 

Tom none-too-gently gave him a nudge and he tumbled onto the bed. Harry was uncertain what he was supposed to do; he’d never shared a bed with anyone, in any sense of the word. 

He didn’t have long to overthink it, because Tom climbed in behind him and threw the blanket over them both. A whispered word in that mind-itchy hissing language and the drapes around the canopy closed. Harry lay statue-still and silent, near panicked. The only noises in the dark space were Tom’s soft breathing and Harry’s racing heart. Tom wrapped his arms around him and pulled Harry’s back flush against his front. Harry’s blush intensified to the point he was sure he must be glowing in the dark. 

Harry squirmed, trying to put at least a modicum of space between him and this strange man he’d only met a few hours ago. 

“Be still,” Tom whispered into Harry’s ear, and he had to suppress a shudder. He spent a long, sleepless night in the embrace of a madman. 

But, as Harry discovered, Tom apparently only wanted someone to literally warm his bed; a human warming-stone. 

Tom’s schedule was opposite of a normal person’s, and he expected Harry to adjust to accommodate it. Which meant they slept during the day and roamed the Deep Woods at night, searching for…Harry wasn’t exactly clear on what. Whenever he tried to ask, Tom would just tell him he’d “know it when he saw it.” 

Every morning Harry fell into an uneasy slumber with Tom wrapped cold around him like a snake around its prey, and every evening he woke tangled in the blankets, alone.

***

Harry had been a little concerned about what being Tom’s apprentice would entail. The man appeared to be an actual sorcerer, not just someone with a strong Witch-Talent. Visions of scrubbing cauldrons and removing newt eyes had danced in Harry’s head.

He wasn’t far off, as it turned out. Being Tom’s apprentice did involve a lot of cleaning. 

Evidently Tom didn’t care to expend magical energy on cleaning spells, because aside from the places he used the most, such as the chair by the fire, the bed, or the worktable, everything was absolutely filthy. 

The area that Harry called the kitchen had a large fireplace with an equally large cauldron hanging in it. A pedestal with a great wooden slab atop it stood in the center. All around were cupboards and countertops scarred and singed and stained with various things that Harry thought best to not think too hard about. 

Yet another odd thing was that Tom didn’t eat. Or at least, Harry never saw him eat. He had live rats in a glass cage for Nagini, but kept no food in his dwelling for himself. When Harry moved in with him, he had to gently remind Tom that he needed food, or the next death he saw hovering might be his own. 

Within an hour, the small cupboard next to the sink was filled with bread, cheese, eggs, cured ham, an assortment of apples, and, strangely, blackberry tarts. Where it all came from, Harry didn’t know, nor did he ask.

Nothing in the cupboard ever seemed to go bad, at least, which Harry was thankful for.

He quickly fell into a routine: cleaning and organizing, wandering the Deep Woods with Tom, listening attentively so Tom didn’t feel like he was talking to himself, and more cleaning and organizing once they returned to the room inside the staff. 

***

Tom’s library was extensive. The main room inside the staff was tall and narrow; everywhere Harry looked there were secret nooks and crannies stuffed with books and spilling over with other oddments. The actual library was a floor below, accessible by way of a trapdoor, though Harry wasn’t allowed in there just yet. The interior of the place was haphazard, as if the builder didn’t really care about form or function, just that everything be crammed in somewhere.

Harry’s task today was carefully cleaning and organizing the overstuffed shelves. Tom had wrapped a tight necklace with a purple stone embedded in it around Harry’s neck. Supposedly to protect him from the “curses, hexes, and assorted poisons” that imbued a great many of Tom’s things. The necklace was uncomfortably tight around his throat, more like a collar than a proper necklace, and the stone would throb occasionally when Harry would clean a particularly vile bit of something or other. 

There was only one item Harry was absolutely forbidden to touch. A large, black, leather-bound book with yet another purple stone inset on the cover, and a latch carved from ivory. Tom called it his grimoire. Harry privately called it “The Book.” 

The Book radiated a malevolence that Harry had never encountered in an inanimate object before. 

It was innocuous at first, or as innocuous as anything in Tom’s abode could be, set in a place of honor above the fireplace mantel. That should’ve been Harry’s first clue, that it wasn’t jumbled together with everything else. 

Harry was wiping the soot off the hearthstone when he heard it: a sweet, crystalline melody, soft and insidious, wrapping itself warmly around Harry’s mind. He found himself humming tunelessly in time with the music in his head. 

After a while, he was polishing the same spot half-heartedly, and eventually stopped altogether. 

Everything went fuzzy around the edges, and Harry was seized with an insatiable urge to look inside The Book. The stone was so beautiful, the cover so handsome. The words written on the front intriguingly squiggly. It matched the staff, in a way. Amethyst and bone. 

Maybe he could just have a quick peek. 

Harry reached out with soot-stained fingers, blissfully ignorant of the fluttery shadow that fell over him like a curtain, and touched the gem on the cover. 

A flash of violet blinded him, and the sound of someone screaming in the distance invaded his ears. 

Pain, red and boiling, burned him to his very core. Molten agony coursed along every nerve, driving out all rational thought. 

He hit the floor and darkness overcame him.

***

The first thing he became aware of was a bone-deep cold that froze his marrow. The second thing was that he was lying flat on his back on a hard, unforgiving surface.

Harry cautiously cracked open an eyelid. 

Tom was standing over him looking annoyed. “Don’t do that again.” 

Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out, so he just shut his jaw with a click. 

“Now that you’ve rejoined the living, you can get off my worktable. I need it.” 

Harry nodded slowly, and scooted off the side of the large wooden slab in the kitchen. He tottered over to the fireplace where The Book was sat on the mantel. If it were possible for a book to look smug, this one managed it.

Harry sent it a glare and then slumped down on the hearthstone, getting as close to the fire as he could without burning himself. Nagini lifted her head from where she coiled next to the fire and hissed at him for daring to share her spot. 

He was just nodding off when the scent of cold earth stole over him. His eyes snapped open. Tom stood very near him, a goblet of some strange, shimmery golden liquid in his hand. He wasn’t wearing his cloak, only a loose black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbow, rather form-fitting black trousers, and shiny black boots. 

“Summerisle’s finest apple wine,” Tom said, holding the goblet out for Harry. The firelight caught the lean muscle of Tom’s pale forearms, and Harry might’ve blushed if he’d had any warmth left in him. 

He realized then that he was absolutely _parched_. He took the goblet and drank greedily. The wine must’ve had some magic to it, because it warmed Harry from the inside out, and he felt properly alive again. 

Harry drained the goblet and sighed contentedly. 

“Better?” Tom asked.

Harry nodded. 

“Good. Now clean up this mess. I’m going out,” Tom said, summoning his cloak. He gestured to the workbench, which was covered in glowing blue-green ooze. 

Harry sighed in exasperation this time.

***

“Potter.”

Harry looked up from scrubbing rat entrails from the cauldron, unease settling into the pit of his stomach. Tom always made a show of calling him “Harry,” whether to unnerve him or to remind him that he belonged to Tom now, Harry didn’t know. So being called “Potter” was cause for alarm. 

Tom was idly flipping through a large, dusty-looking tome, turning each page with precision. 

“Did you know that a mass grave is called a ‘Potter’s Field?’” 

“Er,” Harry said. 

“Just thought that was an interesting coincidence, considering your Talent,” Tom said, flashing him a sharp, white grin. 

Harry managed a weak smile in response, and went back to scrubbing. 

Silence settled between them, the only sounds were the soft scrubbing of Harry's cloth on the cauldron and the quiet rustle of parchment as Tom turned pages.

“Do you want to go back to your village?” 

The question took Harry by surprise. He sat back, thinking. The Dursleys were his only remaining relatives, but he’d never been a part of their family. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon treated him like a slave, while their spoilt son Dudley had the run of the village. 

And while Tom also treated him like a servant, and wasn’t exactly _kind_ , Harry at least felt like he was useful to Tom. 

There was certainly nothing left for him in Godric’s Hollow. 

“No,” Harry said, firmly. 

Tom smiled slowly, like a cat who’d gotten into the cream. “Good boy.” 

Harry tried to pretend he didn’t feel a rush of warmth at the praise, and failed miserably. He went back to scrubbing, feeling lighter than he had in a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

The Book was screaming again. 

Harry threw the blanket off himself and stumbled out of the bed, sidestepping Nagini as he did so. She hissed sleepily at him, coiled atop her self-warming sunstone. 

Tom was nowhere to be found, as usual. 

Harry stumbled groggily down the spiralling stair into the main room, where The Book was left open on Tom’s workbench. 

Previous experience taught Harry that touching The Book unbidden had disastrous consequences. So Harry grabbed a poker from beside the fireplace and carefully lifted the cover to shut it. 

The screaming stopped instantly, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The stupid thing was so fussy when Tom wasn’t around. 

The strange timelessness inside Tom’s home disoriented Harry. He glanced to the ceiling, but the purple stone above was dark, not that that told him anything. Harry’s internal clock said it was time to be awake, however, so he went about making tea. Tom may not eat, but he did drink tea for some reason. 

He’d just taken the kettle down when the runes in the center of the room flared purple. Harry hurriedly set the kettle aside. 

Tom appeared in the center of the runes, a large _something_ wrapped in cloth slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

Harry stayed well back as Tom strode to his workbench and dumped the thing on top of it. A bloody hand slipped free of the cloth, and Harry bit back a shout. 

“Harry, come here,” Tom commanded, his voice ringing. 

Harry couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less, but his body obeyed Tom’s voice even as his mind gibbered in horror. 

He stood next to Tom, trying to breathe shallowly. Tom shed his cloak, and it dissipated into thin air. The shroud followed next, carelessly flung to the floor, uncovering what was, indeed, a dead man. 

The scent of freshly-turned earth and the iron tang of blood flooded Harry’s nose, and he tried not to gag. The corpse was still fresh, if Harry was any judge of such things: the skin sallow and waxy, but not yet bloating. 

“Stand at the end of the table by its head and hold this on the skin at the center of the forehead,” Tom instructed, holding out a small purple stone carved with some kind of twisty rune. Harry wordlessly took the stone and did as he was told. 

Tom looked up, his uncanny red eyes boring into Harry’s own. “Don’t move. Hold that stone in place no matter what happens, or it’ll go badly for everyone.” 

Harry nodded. 

“Now here comes the fun part,” Tom said with a grin. It was a horrible, bloodthirsty thing, though it still made unwelcome heat crawl up Harry’s spine. 

Tom ripped the cadaver’s shirt open, exposing even more horrible, waxy skin. Then, he traced his index finger along the center of the chest, flesh and bone parting as he went. 

Harry was proud of himself for not gagging, though he refused to look too closely at the viscera. He dutifully held the stone in place, wondering why he was even needed, when Tom’s hand dove into the corpse’s chest cavity and pulled out the heart. It glistened wetly in the firelight, and Harry had to fight down another wave of nausea. 

Tom brought the dead man’s heart close to his lips and for one horrible moment, Harry was sure he was going to take a bite. 

But he only whispered something in that hissing language: a long, complex sentence, and breathed on it. 

The heart started beating in his hand. 

The man’s eyes shot open and he let out a long, undulating shriek. Harry jumped, but still kept the stone in place. The formerly-dead man’s eyes bulged, clouded over with a thin film, and tendons popped in his neck as he struggled against the stone’s enchantment keeping him bound. 

“Don’t let go of that stone, Harry,” Tom said, shoving the heart back into the man’s chest and sealing up the wound again. 

Then, Tom summoned a mortar and pestle from the counter and started grinding bits of herb and glowing mushroom into a paste which he daubed over the man’s eyes, nose, and lips. 

The man went limp, his eyelids fluttering shut, and Harry breathed out a sigh of relief. 

Tom flicked his fingers and the glowing paste vanished. He combed his hands through his hair, leaving the curls in disarray. “Well. That was exciting, wasn’t it?” 

Harry stared mutely at the previously-dead man. He was still holding the stone to his forehead. 

“You can let go of that, now.” Tom said. 

“You’re a necromancer,” Harry blurted, hurriedly backing away from the revenant on the table. 

From Tom. 

Tom actually rolled his eyes. “I was wondering when you’d catch on.” 

Tom stalked forward, and Harry stepped back, only halting when his spine pressed against the countertop behind him. Tom stopped only when he was entirely too close, gripping the counter on either side of Harry, caging him in with strong arms and firm body. The smell of fresh death clung to him, making Harry lightheaded. 

“Are you frightened of me, Harry?” There was an odd glint in Tom’s red eyes as they roved over Harry’s face. 

Harry mutely shook his head. 

Tom leaned in even closer. “You’re lying,” he murmured, directly in Harry’s ear. 

He could only squeeze his eyes shut, trying to calm his breathing, his racing heart. Trying to ignore that a dead man was on Tom’s work table barely three feet away. 

Different types of fear warred within him, and Harry knew he could only lose either way. 

Then, Tom stepped back, and Harry could breathe again. 

“I have a job for our friend here, and I’ll be gone a while. Do make sure there’s tea when I return,” Tom said, briskly. 

He snapped his fingers and the revenant sat up. It stiffly maneuvered itself off the table and made its jerky, halting way back to the rune circle. Its unnatural movement made Harry nauseous all over again. 

Then, they were both gone in a flash of violet light, and Harry was alone with his thoughts.

***

Being apprenticed to Tom the Necromancer wasn’t any different from being apprenticed to Tom the Sorcerer, really. Harry still had the same jobs: cleaning and organizing (and their shared living space was now very tidy indeed), still wandering the Deep Woods looking for _something_ , and still serving as Tom’s bed-warmer.

It forced Harry to come to terms with the necromancy thing. What other choice did he have? 

How long he’d been in Tom’s service, he couldn’t say. It could have been several weeks, or even months, everything blended together. The seasons didn’t seem to change, and whenever they went on their evening walk, a half moon always shone bright down upon them. 

They were still wandering somewhere in the Deep Woods, and that’s all Harry could say for sure. 

It wasn’t aimless wandering, however. Harry had learned that Tom never did anything aimlessly, even if his motives weren’t clear.

***

They were getting close to whatever it was. Harry could sense it, a sea-change in the atmosphere. Tom’s excitement was almost palpable.

They’d even left earlier than usual that evening, before sunset. 

They came at last to a circular clearing just as the sun sank below the treeline. Unnaturally circular, and covered over with that strange, low mist. In the center stood some kind of structure that Harry couldn’t see clearly in the gloom. It looked a bit like an arched doorway, only with no walls surrounding it. Something fluttered in the center. 

Tom was close. Very close. He put his hand on the small of Harry’s back and leaned in to whisper in his ear. 

“What do you see, Harry?” 

Harry swallowed nervously at Tom’s proximity. “It’s… some kind of archway? It looks a bit like a door to a church?” 

“Interesting,” Tom breathed. Harry stole a glance at him. 

There were points of color high on his cheekbones, and his dark red eyes glittered with desire. Stained by the bloody light of the setting sun, he looked extraordinarily beautiful. For a fleeting, traitorous moment, Harry wondered what it would be like if Tom looked at him that way. He pushed that thought firmly down, deep enough Tom couldn’t pick it out of his mind. 

Tom took a step into the clearing. The mist fled from the hem of his robes as he walked, shrinking back to reveal not grass or soil, but the mirror-stillness of water. 

Tom stopped, making a motion with his hand and the fog parted, retreating entirely to the treeline. Uncovered, was a lake with a small island in the center where the structure, whatever it was, stood. 

Harry watched in awed silence as Tom walked across the water as if it were solid ground. 

“You’d better follow quickly, or you’ll be beyond the range of my spell. Unless you’d fancy a swim?” Tom’s voice carried, bell-like, across the lake, and Harry scurried to catch up. 

Harry didn’t know what he was expecting, that walking on water would be like walking on ice? That it would splash like a puddle? But the water beneath his feet felt like solid stone, and wasn’t slippery at all. 

They reached the island just as the sun died beyond the horizon. Pinpricks of stars dotted the sky in unfamiliar constellations, and that eternal half moon rose high above the branches. 

Harry was gazing at the night sky, trying to puzzle out why it looked so wrong, and nearly collided with Tom’s back. 

The death that wove itself around the fabric of Tom’s body shifted and writhed, more unsettled than Harry had ever seen it. 

“Harry,” Tom breathed. “Do you see it?” 

Harry peered around Tom’s tall form. The only thing he could be referring to was the archway. This close, he could see…something…in the center of it. Something fluttery and dark, yet insubstantial. 

“Yes..?” 

Tom took a cautious step onto the ground, but went no farther. 

“Describe it for me.” 

There was a strange quality to Tom’s voice, almost strained. Reverent. Harry swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat, and the necklace he wore restricted his breathing for a moment. 

All at once, Harry realized that whatever it was, Tom couldn’t see it.

But Harry could. 

He stepped around Tom to get a better look. 

“I see an archway. It’s made of a black stone, and is standing on a platform made of the same. In the center is…something almost like a curtain, but translucent like a veil? It’s sort of here and not-here, if you catch my meaning.”

He glanced at Tom, who made a noncommittal noise, nodding once. 

He put his hand on the small of Harry’s back, and gave him an almost-gentle push towards it. Harry went without complaint, his skin prickling at Tom’s touch. 

All around them was nothing but deathly stillness. In the hush, Harry could hear a whisper, which he first thought must be wind in the trees beyond the lake. But the sound only intensified the closer he got to the archway. 

Whispers, as if there was a crowd of people just beyond the veil. Every hair on Harry’s body stood on end, like it had done in the presence of Tom’s strong magics (or in the presence of Tom himself). 

Even without Tom’s guiding hand, Harry was drawn closer to the arch. To the voices just beyond. _Harry, Harry, Harry,_ they said. 

Tom stopped him with a bruising grip on his shoulder, just before he could take a step onto the low stone platform. 

“A moment.” 

Something in Tom’s voice made Harry stop cold. He turned to look at the man, who was gazing at him with an intensity that made Harry’s skin prickle for an entirely different reason. 

Then, with the swiftness of lightning, Tom’s hand shot out and grasped Harry’s chin.

The kiss was rough and bruising. Unexpected. 

Despite his innermost secret desires, when the moment came, Harry was caught completely off guard. He could only gasp and let Tom take his fill of his mouth. 

Tom pulled back, finally, and Harry felt as if he’d had his whole soul drawn out from between his lips. 

“Whatever happens, don’t forget that you belong to me,” Tom hissed, releasing his hold on Harry’s chin. “You are _mine_.” 

And with that, he put his hand on Harry’s chest and pushed.

Harry toppled backwards through the Veil, the last thing he saw were Tom’s red eyes before darkness closed in around him.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry woke to the sound of Aunt Petunia pounding on the cupboard door. The thumping knocked down a large spider, which plopped onto his face. Harry carefully removed it to the wall where it resumed its climb. 

Reluctantly, Harry sat up, groggy and disoriented. The dream he’d been having was strange, but he couldn’t remember the details, no matter how hard he tried. 

He scrubbed his hands over his face and yanked one of Dudley’s old tunics from the hook above his head, dislodging another spider. He sighed, pulling the fabric over his head. He flattened his hair as much as possible, knowing that Aunt Petunia despised how his hair grew wildly all over. 

“You lazy layabout!” Aunt Petunia snarled, giving him a rough shove towards the kitchen. 

Harry began every day in the small hours of the morning before Dudley or even Uncle Vernon would rise. He’d spend several hours heating water to activate yeast, mixing, and kneading dough. 

Once the bread was in the ovens, he’d clean until every speck of flour that dusted the countertops was gone, under Aunt Petunia’s watchful eye. By then, the sun was usually up, and he’d be sent out to the miller's to get flour, to the market to buy fruit, or even into the woods to gather raspberries and blackberries to be made into filling for the next day’s pastries. 

The woods. Harry stopped, frowning in puzzlement. Something about the woods? 

Harry looked out the window. The light beyond the thick, wobbly glazing looked oddly reddish. Harry blinked. 

“What are you waiting for? Get to the market before all the good fruit is gone!” Aunt Petunia snapped, shoving a money pouch and basket into his hands and dragging him to the door. 

He hadn’t really paid attention, before, busy as he was with his morning chores, but now he realized that there was something very wrong. Aunt Petunia looked _wrong_ , ashy-grey and waxy. 

The sun was indeed up, a burning, pale disc in a hellish red-orange sky. Harry turned to look at Aunt Petunia, to see if she noticed anything strange. The bloody light illuminated a grisly open gash on her neck. Harry could see tendons poking through, and the bile rose in his throat. 

“Don’t just stand there, you idiot boy! Get going!” Aunt Petunia shrieked, slamming the door in his face. 

Harry stumbled back, unsure of what to think. 

He made his way to the market, surreptitiously studying the people he passed. Everyone had a grey cast to their skin, visible even in the reddish light. Sunken eyes, gaunt cheeks, stringy, lanky hair. 

Harry passed the butcher, who waved cheerfully at him, apparently uncaring of the meat cleaver stuck in his chest. 

Harry opened his mouth, but closed it again, unsure of what to say. He was afraid if he did try to speak all that would come out would be a scream. 

The market was filled with more of the same. People missing limbs, with great, open wounds, their clothes soaked with blood. One man’s head wobbled as if it were only attached to his body by the barest of threads. Harry kept his head down, avoiding eye contact. 

The man at the fruit stand tried to sell him moldy nightshade berries. 

Harry shook his head mutely, backing away. The fruit seller had a horrid, bloated look, his skin all blue. The fruit at his stall was rotten and crawling with insects. 

Harry turned and ran, blindly dodging the dead going about their day. 

In his horror, he wasn’t watching where he was going, and ran smack into a large, solid person. 

Dudley. 

Harry bit back a scream as his cousin turned around. He was missing half his face, and his chest was caved in, like something had crushed it. Harry could see the white glint of broken ribs poking through mangled skin. 

Harry backed away, but bumped into someone behind him. Burnt flesh singed his nostrils. 

The skin of Piers Polkiss’ rat-like face was all blackened and crackling, breaking apart as he widened his lips in a grisly grin. 

“Wos wrong, Potter?” another voice asked from behind him. 

Malcolm Little’s sandy hair was matted with a crust of dried blood, the crack in his skull wide enough that Harry could see glistening bits of brain peeking through. A glob of red ran down over his forehead, and he wiped it away carelessly. 

“Aww Ickle Harrykins, you don’t look so good, all pink and healthy like that,” Dudley cooed mockingly, the cracked bone of his jaw exposed to the terrible daylight. 

“We can take care of that for you,” Polkiss said, as the rest of Dudley’s gang closed in on him. 

Harry whipped the basket into Dudley’s face and ducked underneath horrid, grasping hands, making a break for the woods. 

Ghoulish laughter followed at his heels, but Harry didn’t dare look back.

***

The woods were darker than Harry had ever seen them, despite the crimson daylight. The tree trunks were ghastly pale, bone-white, and barkless, though it was as if patches of night still lingered among the dead trees. Every shadow was blacker than pitch and seemed to move when directly looked at. Harry didn’t even know where he was going, only that he needed to get _away_.

A whisper called to him, as he neared the Deep Woods. A voice, a sweet and silky tenor calling him in. The sound curled darkly around his spine and sent shivers racing along every nerve, and Harry was powerless to resist. 

Comfort and danger all wrapped up in one. 

Harry raced on, rushing towards that familiar voice. His boots slipped on the slimy, blackened leaves blanketing the forest floor. Fallen branches cracked beneath his feet, a sticky, dark liquid oozing out from each one. A musty-damp smell surrounded him as he continued, shot through with cloying poison-sweetness. Hemlock and an open grave. 

A bony arm shot up out of the ground right in front of him, bits of grey, rotten flesh still clinging to it. 

Harry dodged. 

Another arm unearthed itself, followed by a headless torso. 

_“Don’t look back, Harry Potter.”_

That voice again, velvet and beguiling. 

_“You belong to me and only me.”_

Sickening wet cracks of bone and garbled shrieking followed Harry as he ran. 

The Deep Woods loomed ahead, giving Harry a sense of deja vu as he eeled his way between ghostly pale branches. 

The world slipped by in a red-grey-white-black blur as he plunged heedlessly into the mist of the Deep. 

Sooner than Harry thought possible, he reached the lake at the very heart of the Deep Woods.

He didn’t even pause, he just sprinted to the edge of the water.

And kept going. 

Concentric rings emanated from Harry’s every footfall. In the gaps between the ripples, bloated, blue-grey faces could be seen beneath the surface; empty eye sockets and green teeth, hair floating around them like seaweed. 

Still that voice urged him on, even as slimy, grasping hands clawed at his feet. 

Harry reached the island, breathless, but he did not stop until he was in front of the black stone archway.

The susurration of whispers grew louder, and through it all, that voice. On the other side of the arch stood a dark figure, half-visible beyond the fluttering, unearthly material that separated them. Harry realized all at once why the Veil looked so familiar. 

It was the same thing he saw looming over people right before they died. 

The figure on the other side reached a long-fingered, pale hand towards him, beckoning. 

Harry cast one look back. The water of the lake was no longer still: it writhed and boiled. Scaly blue-grey hands scrabbled at the edges of the island as the horrors within tried to pull their waterlogged bodies onto land. 

_“Come back, Harry.”_

He turned and walked through the archway, the material of the Veil caressing his skin as it shifted in and out of reality. 

Harry’s last breath left him, and he welcomed the darkness like an old friend.

***

Harry woke, gasping for air and wound up in some kind of fabric. He couldn’t move; something bound him in place, and his chest tightened with panic. For one horrible moment, he thought he’d been buried alive.

He fought his way free of the sheet, and sat up, panting. 

He was in bed. 

Tom’s bed. Well, he supposed it was his bed, too, even though that thought caused his face to heat up. 

Nagini raised her head and hissed at him, and shuffled her coiled body off of him. Harry may not have understood the language of snakes, but by her tone, she was probably cursing. 

Harry struggled out of the constricting sheets and stumbled out of the bed, making his wobbly way down the spiralling stairs. 

Tom was sat in his usual chair in front of the fire, writing in The Book. 

“Ah good. You’ve rejoined the living again.” 

“You..? What..?” Harry trailed off, everything he wanted to say all jumbled together and stuck in his throat. He gestured helplessly. 

Tom seemed to pick up on his thoughts, anyway, if his quirked eyebrow was any indication. 

“It’s called the Veil. It’s a gateway between the living world and the realm of the dead,” Tom said, closing The Book. “I’d been looking for it for centuries.” 

“You can’t see it,” Harry blurted. 

“No one can. No one—” Tom reached for Harry, wrapping long, pale fingers around Harry’s wrist “— except you, who can see Death itself.” 

Harry allowed himself to be reeled in until he was standing in front of Tom. 

“You needed me to find it.”

Harry paused for a moment. 

“And you needed someone to send through it.” 

Tom grinned. “I wasn’t about to go through it _myself,_ Harry.” 

“How did you know I would come back?” 

“I didn’t,” Tom said, bluntly. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I pulled a bit of your soul into mine so you could find your way back.” 

The kiss. Of course. Harry shifted uncomfortably. Tom’s fingers were still fastened around his wrist. 

“You knew that would work?”

“Not at all,” Tom said, far too cheerfully. “Though I rather suspected it might.”

“I saw everyone from my village in there,” Harry began, slowly. “Aunt Petunia, Dudley, even Malcolm Little, who died the morning I met you.” 

“Did you, now?” Tom didn’t look surprised by that at all. 

“They all had… horrible injuries,” Harry said. “And Malcolm had the same one that killed him.” 

“Interesting.” Was all Tom said, never taking his eyes from Harry’s. 

A suspicion had been growing in the back of Harry’s mind ever since he’d run to the woods on the other side of the Veil. The conversation they’d had, what felt like forever ago, about Harry going back to Godric’s Hollow surfaced in his memory. 

_“Did you know a mass grave is called a ‘Potter’s Field?’”_

The collar around Harry’s throat seemed to tighten even as the thought came to him. 

A reminder of who he belonged to now. 

Tom’s red, red eyes were boring into him, pinning him in place. Tom’s other hand closed around Harry’s other wrist, effectively shackling him. _“You are mine.”_

Harry swallowed, nodding once. 

Tom stood, all tall, sinuous grace, and pulled him closer. 

Harry went willingly into Tom’s cold, deathly embrace.


End file.
